I Walked into the Office a Man, and the Doctor Changed Me

I'm forty-six years old, and until a few months ago I had two certainties about myself: that I was never going to quit smoking and that I was never going to stop being who I was. Both turned out to be false. I still don't know whether to be grateful or afraid, which is why I need to tell this story.

I work as a translator, almost always from home, shut away in a study that smells of coffee and tobacco. That was my life for twenty years: the screen, the full ashtray, one cigarette lit from the butt of the previous one. I tried to quit so many times I lost count. I never lasted more than two days.

I live with Lorena, my wife. She runs the household, and I've always liked it that way. We have a marriage open to trying things, and over the years I learned that what turns me on most is surrendering control to her. She knows it. More than once, I ended up handcuffed to the bed, a plug pressing inside my ass, my cock hard enough to hurt and dripping pre-cum onto my own navel, begging her to let me come while she, straddling my face, made me eat her pussy with cruel patience and decided, between moans, that it still wasn't time. She had taught me to suck her the way she liked, to lick her clit in slow circles until she came, soaking my chin, and then swallow every drop that ran down between her thighs. When she stood up, she'd leave me with my cock throbbing, swollen, purple, and the plug buried all the way inside. I could spend hours like that, tied up and begging.

I tell you all this because it's necessary to understand what follows. Without that part of me, nothing that happened afterward would have taken root.

***

It started with a cough. One early morning I woke up choking and had to get up and sit in the living room, waiting for my breathing to return. Lorena appeared in the doorway, her arms folded.

—You can't go on like this —she said—. Either you quit that, or one of us ends up burying the other before our time.

—Easy for you to say —I replied—. I've tried a thousand times.

—I ran into Patricia at the office —she continued, ignoring me—. You wouldn't recognize her. She smoked more than you, was always dieting, fought with her husband all day long. Now she's a different person. She says a doctor changed her.

—A doctor or a sorceress?

—A psychiatrist. She works with therapy, hypnosis, and some medication. She gave me the card. —She looked straight at me—. Come on, even if it's only once.

—If she isn't too expensive...

—Same old story. I'll make the appointment.

I said yes without thinking too much. I didn't know that with that one word I was signing something much bigger than a prescription.

***

The doctor's name was Renata Bianchi, and she saw patients in an old building with a reception area furnished with leather armchairs and bathed in warm light. The first surprise was the woman at the desk.

You expect a young, discreet receptionist in a neutral blouse. Dalila was the opposite. She was around sixty, with black hair styled as though she'd stepped out of an old movie, eyelids heavy with shadow, false eyelashes, and dark red lips, almost wine-colored. She wore an unbuttoned silk blouse that gave a glimpse of a black lace bra, a pencil skirt that outlined her hips and round ass, seamed stockings, and impossibly high stiletto heels.

I'm a fetishist. I always have been. And that woman brought together, in a single body, everything that drives me wild: the seams running up her calves, the impossible heels, the silk, the heavy makeup. She didn't look sensual. She looked like an animal that had already decided to hunt you and was only waiting for the right moment. My cock hardened inside my trousers the instant I saw her, and I had to adjust myself so it wouldn't show.

—I'm Dalila, the doctor's assistant —she said, handing us some forms.

They began like any medical questionnaire. Then, on the second page, beneath a heading that read Personal Information, there were questions no doctor I knew would have asked. How often we had sex. Whether we used toys. Whether I enjoyed having my ass stimulated from behind. Whether I was attracted to role-play, restraints, cross-dressing. Whether I swallowed my own cum. Whether I liked having it put in me.

I checked almost everything. And as I did, I couldn't stop looking at Dalila's legs beneath the desk, at the way she crossed and uncrossed them, letting me see, for a fraction of a second, the black panties pulled tight against her pussy, the fabric sunk between her lips.

—You could at least pretend not to stare —Lorena whispered in my ear, in that voice I know so well—. Your cock is showing, you pervert.

—Sorry. But if she dresses like that, it's because she wants people to look.

—Typical. Now it's her fault.

***

The nurse, Yamila, was younger, in her early thirties, blonde, with the same exaggerated makeup and a white coat so short and tight I wondered how she sat down. She took us into an examination room for “some tests.”

What happened there was strange from the very beginning. Yamila took my blood pressure with her tits pressed against my face, so close that I could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the coat and the sweet scent of her perfume mixed with the latex of her gloves. She drew my blood, stroking my arm with her painted fingernails, dragging them all the way up to my shoulder. When she bent down to get something, her coat rode up and I saw her white panties, so thin that her shaved pussy showed through. I got hard again, uncomfortably hard, and she noticed and smiled at me, biting her lip.

And when it was Lorena's turn, she did exactly the same thing to her: brushed against her, ran her hand up her thigh beneath her skirt, brought her mouth close to her neck, and blew hot air into her ear. She undid the first buttons of her blouse “to auscultate her better” and slid her fingers along her cleavage, barely brushing her nipple. My wife, who normally would have made a scene, stayed still, bewildered, her breath caught, looking at me as if asking what kind of place this was and why it didn't bother her as much as it should have.

At the end, she took out two syringes.

—What's that? —I asked.

—A mild sedative —Yamila said—. It helps the doctor take you into a deeper trance, if she decides to use hypnosis.

She injected us both. Then she separated us: she took Lorena into the doctor's office first and left me waiting at reception.

What followed was like a dream I still haven't fully awakened from. Dalila and Yamila stayed “chatting” in front of me, but every gesture seemed rehearsed. One leaned over the desk, revealing the black corset beneath her coat, her enormous breasts pushed upward, almost spilling out of the cups. The other crossed her legs again and again, like a metronome, and I caught glimpses of the white triangle between her thighs. At one point Dalila brought a finger to her mouth and sucked it slowly, then lowered her hand and ran it across Yamila's cleavage, brushing her nipple through the coat until it hardened and showed clearly. My head felt heavy and far away. It wasn't dizziness. It was a strange calm, as though someone had switched off my defenses, and yet my cock tightened inside my trousers until it hurt. I could almost swear that, when they thought I wasn't looking, they licked their lips and stared at my crotch.

***

Dr. Bianchi was different. More elegant, more restrained. A fitted black dress beneath her coat, tortoiseshell glasses, soft but carefully applied makeup. She ignored the hand I held out and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, leaving her warm breath against my ear.

—Lie back in that chair, Tomás. I'm going to ask you a few questions.

I rested my head, and a strange peace settled over me, as if my body suddenly weighed three times as much.

—The sedative has reached the right level —she said, sitting beside my head—. So we won't waste time. We'll go straight into a trance. Look at the screen.

She pressed a switch. A panel in front of me began to flash, sequences of light filling my eyes. The last thing I remember is Renata crossing her legs, the edge of her stocking showing beneath her dress, and a thought floating through my head: what legs; I'd give anything to lick her shoes.

The next thing was her voice waking me.

—A more-than-successful session, Tomás.

I sat up slowly. I was lucid and, at the same time, soft and docile. I went out and found Lorena at the desk. The doctor explained that the treatment included medication designed for each of us and some audio recordings to listen to before bed, “reinforcers,” she called them. When we left the building, it was night. We'd gone in at three in the afternoon, and it was almost ten. Seven hours. Neither of us knew where the time had gone.

—I didn't notice the time —Lorena said in the car—. I felt like I was floating.

—Me too.

That night we took the medication. I worked for a while and went to bed. I fell asleep immediately, with the audio playing softly: gentle music, a voice I couldn't retain, and some very, very strange dreams.

***

I woke up with my wrists handcuffed. Lorena was finishing tying my legs to the bed, spread wide, my cock already hard and pointing at the ceiling.

—You spent the entire day staring at both of their tits with your mouth hanging open —she said, without anger, almost amused—. Today you're getting punished, you pervert.

I knew the ritual, but that night she looked different. She had put on a pair of heeled boots I'd given her two years earlier and that she'd never worn, black stockings with garters, a thong that disappeared between her buttocks, her hair tied back, her lips the color of dark wine. Lorena almost never wore makeup. That night she looked like someone else.

—Do you like it? —she asked—. Half punishment, half reward for going to the appointment.

She climbed onto the bed and smeared cold lubricant over my asshole. I felt the silicone plug pushing in, slowly opening my ass, and let out a moan I didn't recognize as my own. She drove it in to the base with one hard thrust, and I arched my back against the cuffs. Then she took my cock in one hand and began to masturbate me slowly, squeezing the base whenever she felt me getting close. She sucked me twice that night, unhurriedly, taking me all the way into her throat and pulling me out with a thread of saliva hanging from her lip, while her other hand squeezed my balls until I begged her. Every time I started trembling and gasping that I was going to come, she let go and pinched my glans between two fingers, cutting my climax off cold. I cried in frustration, pulling at the cuffs until my wrists were red.

—Please, please, let me finish —I begged—. I'm begging you.

—Not yet, slut.

She took off her thong, straddled my face, and pressed her soaked pussy against my mouth.

—Lick. And don't stop until I tell you to.

I pushed my tongue between her wet lips, licked her from top to bottom, and sucked her swollen clit until I felt her thighs clamp down against my ears. She came on my face, trembling and tugging my hair, and I swallowed everything that ran down over my chin and neck. She climbed off, wiped herself with two fingers, put them in my mouth for me to suck, and went back to my cock. Again she brought me to the edge. Again she let go. And again. And again. Dawn was breaking when she asked what I was willing to do to finish.

—Anything —I said, my voice breaking—. Whatever you want.

—Are you sure? No matter how perverse it is?

—Please. Anything.

She began pumping my cock rapidly, her palm wrapped tightly around it, and driving the plug in and out at the same rhythm, in and out, in and out. Within two minutes I was coming, thick jets spilling into her cupped hand. She squeezed out everything I produced, every last drop, holding the hot cum in her palm. Then she brought it to my mouth.

—Now drink it. You promised.

I protested, but my will no longer answered to me. I stuck out my tongue and slowly licked the thick, salty, warm pool clean, while she watched me with a new smile and whispered, “good girl.” And yet, before I fell asleep, I had another thought: since leaving the appointment, I hadn't touched a single cigarette.

***

From then on, every day added another layer. I don't know how much was Lorena, how much was the medication, and how much was those recordings I listened to without remembering a word. I only know that the line kept moving, and I followed it gratefully.

One night she asked me to put on her underwear, a bra, and a pair of stockings. I agreed without arguing, as long as she would let me go. She let down my hair, which I'd always worn long and tied back, and stuffed the bra with two water balloons. She took a step back and looked me over.

—You almost look like a woman —she said—. Your crotch and the hair on your legs give you away. Everything else is perfect.

She stroked my back while sliding the lubricated plug into my ass, pushing it in little by little until a sharp moan escaped me. Dressed halfway as a woman, my loose hair falling over my face, I felt the weight of the balloons shifting as though they were real breasts. She laid me facedown, pulled my panties halfway up my thighs, leaving my ass covered by the black fabric, and sat on my kidneys. She began moving the plug with two fingers, in and out, and whispering in my ear while I soaked the pillow with saliva.

—Look how much you like having it put in you. Look at you moving that little ass, slut.

She stroked my cock from beneath, pressing it against the mattress, and made me come biting the pillowcase to keep from screaming. I slept that way, wearing stockings, a bra, and padding, the plug inside me and the audio playing in the darkness.

The next morning she set one condition for repeating it.

—The only thing that breaks the spell is all that hair —she said—. Shave and wait for me just as you were last night. I promise you a surprise.

I would have said yes to anything. I went to a pharmacy on the pretext of buying something for my wife, came back, showered, and covered my entire body in cream, leaving only a triangle. When I rinsed off, my legs were smooth, soft, unfamiliar. I dressed by myself: first the plug, pushing it into myself with a trembling hand and my mouth open, then her clothes, the bra, the padding, this time with a little more water, the lace panties tightening over the cock that was already beginning to swell. I combed my hair to one side, in a style that seemed more feminine to me, and tried to get on with my day.

I couldn't concentrate on anything. The feel of the stockings against my shaved legs, one leg rubbing against the other, kept me on the edge the entire time. My panties grew damp in front from the pre-cum that dripped without stopping. I crossed and uncrossed my legs as I'd seen Dalila do at the office, just to feel the plug move inside me. Twice I went into the bathroom, pulled down my panties, and jerked off while looking at myself in the mirror, watching that hard, solitary cock protruding from the black lace, but I didn't let myself finish. I wanted to arrive at the evening intact.

***

When Lorena came in, I greeted her with a long kiss, holding her by the waist while she caressed my ass beneath the borrowed skirt, feeling the base of the plug through the fabric.

—How pretty —she said against my mouth—. You don't know how much it turns me on to see you like this. You're wet, aren't you?

—Soaked —I confessed—. Let me go, please, and I'll show you whatever you want.

—Slow down. —She pulled back a little and looked at me—. I can't keep calling you Tomás when you're dressed like this. From now on, whenever you dress up for me, you'll be Tamara.

—Tamara? I have a woman's name?

—Right now you seem much more like Tamara than Tomás to me. And it turns you on, don't deny it.

—I've been turned on all day —I admitted.

—Turned on, feminine —she corrected me—. If you don't want to play, fine. But then there will be no key.

—I've been turned on all day waiting for you —I repeated, and something inside me surrendered when I said it.

She pushed me against the wall, hiked my skirt up to my waist, yanked off my panties, and made me kneel in front of her. She opened her blouse, lowered her bra, and put a hard nipple in my mouth.

—Suck, Tamara. Like a good girl.

I sucked her tits one at a time, barely biting her nipples while she pulled my long hair and guided my head. Then she forced me lower, opened her dress, and slammed my face against her wet pussy. I licked her without stopping, my cock hard and throbbing beneath the women's clothes, the plug buried in my ass, until she came clutching my hair and whispering, “That's it, that's it, my slut, my Tamara.” Only then did she turn me around against the wall, lower my stockings a little, yank out the plug, and push her fingers inside me, three, four of them, all the way in, pretending to fuck me as though she had a cock. She jerked me off in front at the same time with her other hand, and I came screaming her name, splattering the wall with jets that fell onto the black lace.

—See? With a little practice, you'll be my perfect lover. Now come on, I've got something for you.

She gave me a bag. Inside was lingerie that had never belonged to her, bought in my size, and a pair of women's shoes in my size. The truth hit me slowly, like everything else during those days: none of this had been improvised. Not the doctor, not Dalila displaying herself, not the recordings, not Lorena suddenly discovering desires she'd never had before. They were leading me somewhere, step by step, and I had put my feet on the path myself.

The strange thing wasn't realizing it. The strange thing was how little I cared.

I've been smoke-free for three months. The doctor kept her promise: she took away the habit that was killing me. What I haven't told anyone is that she left me another one in its place, one that ignites every time I slide on my stockings, push in the plug, and let down my hair in front of the mirror. Tomás barely appears anymore, except for work. Tamara, on the other hand, has an appointment with Dr. Bianchi on Thursday. And for the first time in years, I'm looking forward to an appointment with the desire to kneel.